


Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

by NinaKnows



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinaKnows/pseuds/NinaKnows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newlywed Sansa Stark is married to one man but dreaming about another. Or…are they the same person? The Lady of Winterfell faces inner turmoil as she tries to decide between escaping through her dreams and trying to change her reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa stared blankly at the back of her husband's head, letting a few more tears escape. How did she get here? Lying on _their_ bed in _her_ home, still wearing a torn wedding dress and feeling a deep soreness down below that made her ill to think about. She didn't bother to move after the act. She hadn't even bothered to roll onto her back. It hurt to move. It hurt to think about _why_ it hurt to move. She didn't want to feel anything, she didn't want to see the blood that had no doubt stained the furs, and she didn't want to see if Theon (she refused to call him by his pet name) was still there, but she was pretty sure that she'd heard him leave when it was apparent that Ramsay was asleep.

Ramsay was snoring loudly and she could bet that this was one of the best sleeps he'd ever had. There was no doubt in her mind that he was fairly comfortable and content with their wedding night, and all she wanted to do in that moment was strangle the life out of him. He was probably smiling right now, probably reliving that entire scene in his dreams, and it made her want to vomit. She never thought that she could loathe someone more than Joffrey, but she was proven wrong. So. Very. Wrong. She stared holes into the back of him, wondering what it would be like to yank those dark locks of hair out of his head until he had no more. Until he was reduced to a screaming creature with a bleeding scalp. When she finally had enough of him in her sight, she moved onto her side—facing opposite of him, of course—and scooted as far away from the sleeping man as possible. She made a silent wish for his death before closing her eyes.

* * *

 

When Sansa woke, she was immensely disappointed. She was hoping for a dream of Ramsay's end. Something gruesome like being burned alive, mauled by beasts, or being torn in half by a giant like the ones in Old Nan's stories. At the very least, she could've been given the moment that they received the news of Walda's pregnancy again. She smiled faintly at the memory.

**_"Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy."_ **

But she had no dream of the sort, and now she was to open her eyes to a new day in a Bolton-infested Winterfell. Sansa sighed and sat up. It seemed fairly dark in the room despite it being morning. Maybe she'd woken up in the middle of the night? She liked the thought of having another chance to dream of her husband's demise, but before she could lie back down, she heard footsteps outside the door.

They stopped. She tensed. Then there was a whisper.

"Sansa…"

Her eyebrows furrowed and she leaned in a bit to try and hear whatever came next.

"Sansa, come outside," the person said.

She thought about replying, but decided against it in fear that Ramsay would awake. Sansa slowly turned her head and glanced to the other side of the bed, but to her surprise, there was no one there. There was no need to worry now.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"Outside."

"What do you want?"

" _Outside._ "

Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes. Who was playing games with her at this time? She carefully slipped out of bed, still severely sore from Ramsay's treatment, and removed her dress…or at least what remained of it. She found some garments that would be acceptable to wear outside for now (at least they provided her with clothing if nothing else) and made her way to the door. She hesitated to open it.

"Sansa, come on," the person whispered. It sounded like a man, but it was faint enough that she couldn't tell whom.

This could be someone trying to hurt her. Maybe it was a Bolton who was planning on taking advantage of her. Or maybe it was someone trying to take her away from here. Away from these terrible people and this place that used to be home. Either way, nothing could be worse than what she was already being forced to endure, so Sansa opened the door.

Who greeted her on the other side was not whom she was expecting and definitely not someone she wanted to see. Her stomach dropped.

" _Finally_ ," he said. "Hello, my dear wife."

Sansa shuddered when Ramsay smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa was frozen in place as she stared at her husband.

"Well?" He asked with great amusement in his tone. "Aren't you going to say something? _Do_ something?"

She chose her next words carefully.

"What is it that you'd like me to say or do, Lord Bolton?"

Ramsay's smile grew. "Anything you want, Lady Bolton."

Sansa grimaced at the title.

"I…I'm not sure," she stammered. "I'm not sure what to say. Or do." She wanted to question him and his reason for being there, but she wasn't sure how he'd respond. Even though she was his wife, she didn't think she had any place to ask him about anything he did. But he _was_ calling her name…

"You wanted me here for a reason, Lord Bo—"

He raised his hand, cutting her off. "Ramsay."

Sansa blinked. "Yes. Of course. I apologize, Lord— _Ramsay_." She cursed at herself internally for almost making the same mistake again. Then she heard something that she couldn't believe.

He laughed. It didn't sound utterly menacing as it usually did, but it seemed… _genuine_. Sansa shook her head and figured that she was just hearing things.

"Is something wrong, Sansa?" He asked it as if she had no reason to be unsettled at this moment.

"No," Sansa answered rather quickly. She figured that any other answer would have upset him. "But if I may ask, Ramsay…," she began.

"And you may." He reassured her.

"What are we doing here?"

"I wanted to take a walk throughout Winterfell," he answered, seemingly honest. "I thought you'd want to come with me."

Sansa was becoming slightly annoyed with her inability to come up with responses. Yet again, she was rendered speechless. Why would he want to take a walk at this time of night? Why was he _really_  bothering her? This was probably a trap, but she was sure that she had no way out now.

She began breathing harder and trembling slightly as she thought of his motives. She was far too exhausted and weak from the wedding night to deal with more of his outrageous behavior. She was still so sore and just looking at him was giving her anxiety, and his voice was making her ill, and she thought of running back inside, but before she could do anything, he took her hand. She tensed.

"Sansa, tell me what's going on."

Gods, _why_ did it _barely_ sound like a demand? Why didn't his grip cause her pain? What kind of game was he playing? Sansa stood still and waited for anger and pain, but it never came.

"I'm fine," she lied. "Everything is fine."

Ramsay gave her a look showing that he didn't believe her, but then shrugged. "Let's go then." He kept her hand in his and started walking, pulling her—not roughly—along the way until she decided to walk side-by-side with him.

As they went, Sansa took in the sight of Winterfell at night. The snow fell softly onto the castle, and Sansa sighed at the beautiful contrast of white against the grey stone. Her admiration and awe soon turned to resentment and disgust as her eyes took in the Bolton banners and defaced direwolves. She glanced over at her husband with deep hatred, but he didn't notice. Instead, he was too busy taking in the castle for himself, beaming as he continued to observe it. The passionate loathing in Sansa's expression grew deeper, and when Ramsay finally glanced back at her, his smile faltered.

"You don't like it," he spoke simply.

Sansa didn't reply but only looked away from him.

"It's not your home anymore."

Her eyes snapped back to his, and she glared at him with a fierceness she had never displayed in his presence before.

"It _is_ my home. It will _always_  be."

Ramsay looked a bit taken aback by her sudden retort, but did not react with rage. "But it isn't. You know that," he said calmly.

Her husband's soft demeanor continued to unnerve her, but her outrage by his response overshadowed her fear.

"I was _born_ here," she said sternly, eyes boring into his. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and this is my _home_."

"Yet look whose banners are on the walls," he said matter-of-factly. There was no malice in his voice whatsoever. She was starting to think that he wasn't mocking her after all, and that threw her off.

"Like I said, this isn't your home," he continued. "Not simply because _we're_ here. You don't see it as you used to. You clearly don't feel like you belong here anymore, Sansa. You feel like a stranger here." He shrugged. "So it's not your home."

She watched him with curiosity. It seemed as though he truly wasn't making comments just to piss her off. He was just talking, and he was making sense. It was almost as if he was reading her. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. She didn't think that she liked it.

"You're different," she stated suddenly. It was something that just slipped out as she was thinking it.

"What?"

Well, there was no use in backing out now. "You're different from how you were before," she admitted. "I can't say exactly how, but it's not the same. Not at all."

Ramsay regarded her with a confused look. "I don't see how I'm any different, Sansa."

Now she was growing frustrated.

"Just tell me what game you're playing already. I'm not stupid, Ramsay."

Ramsay's eyebrows furrowed. "I never said you were. And I'm not playing any kind of _game_."

Sansa groaned and shouted at him. "Ramsay, please! Just stop! I'm tired of this! I'm tired of being confused!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" He was raising his voice now.

When she noticed her husband growing irritated, she could have sworn she had almost sighed in relief. He was finally starting to act like his old self, and the world was almost making sense again.  _Almost_.

"Sansa, please explain," Ramsay said impatiently.

_Now that really doesn't sound like something he would say_ , she thought to herself.

Fine. If he was going to play this game, then she would let him. She wasn't going to play along, and she wasn't going to let him get to her. Then he would win. She would just ignore him and his antics then.

"Never mind," she sighed. "I was just being ridiculous. You're the same as you were. I suppose I'm just very tired." Sansa let out a fake yawn. "I'm walking back to my— _our_ room, and I'm going back to sleep."

Ramsay shrugged. "As you wish, my dear wife." He started to take her hand before she snatched it away.

"And I don't need you to walk me back," she snapped. If he was going to carry on with this game of playing nice, then she would take full advantage. "I am perfectly capable of getting back there myself."

He shrugged again. "Once more, as you wish." Without another word, her husband walked away from her, continuing his stroll throughout Winterfell.

Sansa, now thoroughly drained and unsettled, did just as she said she would and made it back to the room. As she lied back down on her side of the bed, she thought about her odd, deranged husband one more time before falling asleep.

* * *

 

When Sansa woke up a second time, she immediately rolled over to her other side to see if Ramsay was there. He was not, and as she lied there staring at the empty space on the bed, she was reminded of all of which occurred last night.

_**"It's not your home anymore."** _

_**"It is my home."** _

_**"You feel like a stranger here."** _

_**"You're different."** _

_**"I don't see how I'm any different, Sansa."** _

She shook all of the thoughts from her head and groaned. Hopefully he'd be done playing games today. She hated being so uncertain. It made her just as uneasy as his typical behavior did. Maybe even more so. Just as she sat up, the door flew open and slammed against the wall as Ramsay stormed in.


End file.
